


The Aftermath

by Sherry_CS



Series: The Aftermath [2]
Category: Finder no Hyouteki | Finder Series
Genre: BDSM, Bottom Feilong, Chapter 1: Fluff, Chapter 2: smut, DO read Ch.2 notes before you continue, Dominant Feilong, M/M, More warnings apply, Religion (past reference), Submissive Mikhail, Top Mikhail, Underage torture (past reference)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-07-23 16:47:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20011564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherry_CS/pseuds/Sherry_CS
Summary: What Feilong offers in return......is nothing Mikhail had in mind.





	1. The Build-Up

In his dream, there were at least twenty men. They stood around him, holding their cocks in their hands, their faces blinded out by incandescent lights. He was tied up, battered and naked, bent by the hips and hung in the air. The men crowded around him. They smudged their hands all over him, they took turns stroking his cock, palming his balls and probing his rear. In his dream, he couldn’t feel the pain. His attackers were a slimy blur, their laughs, the slaps in his face, the grab in his hair, the spreading of his legs, the bending and the bruising... it all felt very far away, but their gaze… Their gaze was a very real, very live thing, it bore through their faceless haze and hit him like a rock. Only under that acid gaze did he feel weak, and small, like a helpless prey under the claw of a hungry predator. The predator leaned in, dripping saliva all over him, and he screamed awake. 

He was in the safety of his own room, surrounded by darkness and drenched in sweat. He was lying on his stomach, his familiar silks pooled around his waist. He tried to get up.

“Don’t. You’ll tear your wounds. They aren't healed yet.”

A voice in the dark. On the floor, by his bed. Feilong stilled into battle mode. His reading lamp was turned on, revealing a half-naked Mikhail Arbatov sitting on the floor, dressed only in jeans and a smirk. His blonde hair was tossed, his fang-shaped pendant nestled against his chest, one wrist rested upon his knee. He would’ve leaned against the wall if he didn’t have a maze of cuts upon his back. He got up, and moved toward Feilong’s bed. 

“Stop right there.” Feilong warned. The Russian did as told. 

“I know what you’re thinking. Yoh let me in. He’s standing right outside that door, if you want to know.” The Russian provided a ready answer. 

“Would you send him in on your way out, please.” Feilong’s tone was as dark as the night, not quite as smooth. 

“Sure.” The Russian was quick to answer, but not quick to leave. Instead of leaving, he knelt beside Feilong's bed and cradled the Dragon’s face, slipping his fingers into that cascade of black hair and nudging behind a ear. “Tonight I’ve seen another side of you. For that I am grateful. You’re truly a midnight rose.” He leaned in for a kiss, and stopped when he felt a dagger against his stomach. 

“Get. Out.” His rose commanded. 

“Fair enough. Fair enough.” Mikhail stood, putting his hands in the air. “Just wanted to watch you sleep. Wasn’t planning on anything else, no kissing, no cuddling, no feeling up your legs… oops, did I say it out loud?” 

“Mikhail.” Feilong’s voice stopped him at the door. “What happened… it does not make us friends, you know.”

“I know.” Mikhail turned around, and blinked, “I never wanted it to.” 

Feilong spent the rest of the night trying to wipe that blink out of his mind. 

—

Feilong waited three days to start the talks with Mikhail Arbatov, and that was the extent of his hospitality. With some difficulty, he got into his usual cheongsam — his ribs were not healed yet, if he respected the doctor’s orders, he should still be in bed, but he couldn’t wait any more. If Mikhail Arbatov stayed on his premises for too long, people would start to talk, business-related or not, and he simply couldn’t afford to have certain people get the wrong ideas. These were troubled times, and one must tread their path carefully. He looked into the full-length mirror, and was satisfied to see there his usual businessy self.

When he went to the guest rooms, the Russian was nowhere to be found. It was 7 o’clock in the morning, where could he be? Then he heard a shriek. Tao?! He ran. 

He found the child in their private kitchen. Without a doubt, the Russian was there also, throwing flour onto the kid’s face. “And that is how… we make rain… in Russia!” Tao was shrieking with laughter, arms flailing in counter-attack, eyes shut to keep the powder out, face red with excitement. A 13-year-old. The Russian was dressed in an open shirt, Bermuda shorts, and neon-coloured flip-flops, his hair tied into a piggy tail with stray hair flowing every which way. Feilong wondered for a brief moment where he got those clothes — such attire was strictly off-limits within the Baishe headquarters. 

“Good morning, Feilong-sama.” The maid noticed the Boss first. 

Tao halted in mid-action and then tried to wipe all that powder off of his face in a frantic. “Fei…Feilong-sama!” He greeted Feilong with a bow, all that white barely out of his eyes. 

“Tao, Gillian, would you two leave us alone for a moment? Mr. Arbatov and I have business to talk.” 

“Sure, Boss.” The boy and the girl fled the scene, holding hands.

After they were gone, Mikhail flip-flopped around the kitchen island toward the fridge. “You’re up early. Juice?” Before Feilong could answer, the blonde was already getting oranges out and tumbling them onto the table like he was in his own home. Feilong took a step closer. “Mikhail, we need to talk.” 

“Uh-uh.” The Russian wagged his index finger as he selected a knife, “can we talk after I eat? I can’t think when I’m hungry.” Feilong sighed, “why am I not surprised. What do you want? I can get Gillian back and…” “No, no, no…” Mikhail shook his head as he squeezed half an orange into the presser. The machine made such a roar that for a moment, no conversation was possible. Feilong waited. A few minutes later, Mikhail turned around, holding two glasses in hand. He extended one toward Feilong across the kitchen island. “This is stupid.” The Chinese muttered, but took the glass anyway. The Russian smiled as he downed half of his juice in one go like it’s alcohol. “Now, Tao and I were making bread and I was about to show him how to make a perfect omelette. Now that you’ve scared him away, care to be my new student?” The Russian offered. The Chinese choked on his juice. “You've got to be kidding right, Arbatov?” “Why?” Mikhail was all innocence. “I don’t cook.” The Chinese explained like it was the most obvious thing in the world. 

“But why? It’s fun!” Mikhail exclaimed. Feilong looked like he could hang himself. “Can’t we just do business like normal crime lords without messing with breads and flour and omelettes and stuff? I don’t cook, I don’t bake, I don’t make my own tea, and I sure as hell am not going to do it with you!” The Russian took a step closer and said in a low voice, “you also said you’d never sleep with me and you did. And it wasn’t too bad, was it?” He smirked. 

Feilong’s face went flaming red in less than a second. He set his glass down and straightened his back. “I see you are not in your right mind. Maybe you took a hit to the skull as well. I’ll come find you later.” And he turned to leave. 

Mikhail grabbed his hand. “Don’t go.” 

Feilong’s body tensed, but he did not fight Mikhail. Instead, he murmured, “why?” He did not know why he had to ask, he just did. The Russian answered in a simple steady voice, “I nearly lost you. Please don’t make me lose sight of you again. Stay, ok? I’ll be good, I promise.” If he sounded a little like begging, he couldn’t help it, nor did he care. Not any more. 

The wait seemed to last for a millenium. At long last, Feilong turned around. 

“Just an omelette, okay? And I won’t eat my own cooking if it’s bad.”

Mikhail tried not to beam and failed. “Don’t worry. I will.”

—

For days, Feilong couldn’t sit Mikhail down for one short meeting. The man had inexhaustible ways to weasel out of work. He was up too early, he was up too late, he was feeling healthy, he was in pain, he wanted to play his video games, he didn’t shower, he had important phone calls from Russia (which was a lie because a movie could be heard playing in his room)... Feilong had never met a criminal quite as lazy as Mikhail. 

He decided to catch him unawares. The seventh day after Mikhail and Feilong rescued themselves off that ship, the Baishe leader called his housekeeper into the office, asked her a few questions, and borrowed the key to one of the guest rooms from her. 

At seven o’clock the next day, Feilong sneaked into Mikhail’s room.

The first thing he heard was the running of water coupled with a unique style of singing. Mikhail was singing the Lion King in Russian, managing several parts at the same time, his voice going from soprano to baritone without warning, mimicking the animals without missing the chorus, throwing in a bit of drums here, adding a little tremor there. A one-man Broadway show, (or zoo.) The curtains were drawn. The room was dark. A smokey smell in the air, with a hint of musk. It was a very male sort of room, bare, comfy, bordering on slobbish but not quite. Feilong approached the bathroom, his footsteps so light they made no noise whatsoever upon the carpeted floor. 

The door was unlocked. It opened without a sound. Inside, Mikhail was moussing himself down behind the glass curtain, his naked form obscured by the thick steam, his fair skin made even brighter-looking by the reflection of light. He looked like an angel bathing in the clouds rather than a mere mortal having his morning shower. The scars upon his back looked as fresh as if they were made yesterday. 

It took Mikhail several minutes to register the extra presence in the room. Then it happened again — the stilling of his body, the slight straightening of his back, the head turning a minute angle, then the ultimate softening once he realised who it was. Same process as in that dark cabin on the ship. “Do you wanna join? Or shall I finish here quickly and join you in bed?” Without fail, he had a brand of indecency tailored for every occasion. Feilong wasn’t even flustered any more. “I will only be a minute. Just answer my questions, then I’ll be on my way.” 

“I hope you will not, but shoot.” Mikhail said as he rinsed the soap from his hair and body. Foamy water trickled down his tight ass and long sinewy legs. Feilong looked away. 

“What have you learnt from the Chernobog men you took?” 

“Not much. Their leader stays behind the curtain. Yuri was the only commander they knew.”

“So we have cut off a limb without glimpsing the head?”

“Seems that way, and made ourselves a great enemy by doing so. But hey, what’s new?” 

“You will keep me posted on any new information you find, of course.” Feilong did not share Mikhail’s optimism, but he wasn't particularly disturbed either. There was truth in Mikhail’s words — in their line of work, a new friend or enemy is made daily, they are like a side to your breakfast. They tackled Chernobog once, they could do it again. And now for the real topic —

“Mikhail, I’ve been thinking. Does my offer on that particular route still interest you?”

“Why? You already paid me. Are you tipping me for my good service?” The water was turned off. Mikhail stepped out of the shower wearing nothing but a dirty smile. 

“With a flourishing route connecting Europe and Asia? I don’t think so. This is the real offer, that was...”

“The most wonderful sex I’ve had all my life, and I hope yours too.” Mikhail’s voice suddenly dipped half an octave. 

Without drying himself, the naked Russian stepped in toward Feilong, walking him back toward the dressing table until the Chinese’s ass touched the marble surface. His drippy wet arms cornering the beauty in on both sides, he ground his body into the Chinese’s silk-clad torso. The Dragon’s eyes opened wide, for he could feel the other man’s hardness rubbing against his own parts. The Russian was taller and bigger, practically enveloping him with his nakedness and that slippery heat. It was only at times like this that Feilong cursed his Asian descent. 

The Russian’s hands edged in and grabbed Feilong’s, pinning the latter’s wrists to the table. Mikhail leaned in, whispering into Feilong’s ear, “that night, it was really all I wanted. You gave me a chance, and it was worth more than any route anybody can offer. Now, I agree with you that an alliance, under the circumstances, is beneficial to us, but on that ship, I did what I did cuz I wanted to. This is not a deal for me. Never was.”

Now his lips moved toward Feilong’s mouth, trailing across that porcelain cheek like a leaf in a breeze. Now they descended upon those candypop lips, drowning out protests, sucking out doubts. Feilong started to slip under the power of that kiss, and Mikhail grabbed him, squeezing that petite form into his muscular body. He straddled him with his strong legs, further pinning him in place, banning all exit. And Feilong felt light, very light, light as a feather, melting and evaporating under the looming furnace that was Mikhail Arbatov. And he could feel himself getting hard, he couldn’t help it, he couldn’t help the gasp either when Mikhail’s big warm hand blanketed it, palming it and kneading it and reaching toward his balls... He had to free one hand and cling onto Mikhail’s shoulders when — 

“Stop stop stop! I need... I need to...!” Feilong pushed Mikhail away and dashed out the door. Once in the living room, he threw the curtains open, steadied himself against the wall, clutching his chest and trying to keep his breathing under control. Mikhail followed him out. “It’s your ribs, isn’t it? They are not healed yet.” Feilong did not reply right away. He waited until his breathing was safe and steady, so was his mind. “They will be. Listen, Arbatov...”

“Please, not Arbatov again. You want an alliance, you should call me by my name.” 

Feilong had his mouth sealed, his cheeks still blushing but his eyes pure defiance. 

“Look at you, your erection is not half gone and here you are, playing the virgin again. You’re attracted to me, just admit it. A moment ago you were juicy like...”

But he couldn’t finish those words, for Feilong was upon him like a gush of wind. Silk upon flesh, he pinched Mikhail’s chin with two fingers and ghosted a kiss over that mouth. He let go before Mikhail could give chase. 

“I’ll make you an offer you can’t refuse, as they say, Arbatov... And let’s see how proud you are then.” Feilong announced. He turned and left while the taste of their kiss was still lingering in the air. 

Mikhail’s gaze followed that slender body as it drifted out the room. 

How proud _I_ am? Baby, you have our positions all wrong. Pun intended. 


	2. The Action

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains some rather dark sex. Sex as a way to cleanse. Pain as a way to bring out our better selves. Do heed the warnings before you continue:
> 
> 1\. Feilong doms, Mikhail subs, but Feilong does NOT top Mikhail;  
> 2\. Use of various tools and toys, including spreader bar, cock cage, paddle, crop, etc.;  
> 3\. Contains spanking, whipping (past and present), bondage, and orgasm delay/denial;  
> 4\. Drama mixed with smut, invented backstory to Mikhail's scars, past reference to religious underage torture, Mikhail's adolescent crush.

He wakes up in the dark. Ceiling above, dead silence around. He knows he is in chains, and he knows he’s naked. Doesn’t even have to check. He recognises the sensation by heart. What happened before this? Oh yes, he was having dinner with a friend, a long lost friend who hadn’t contacted him for years… Yes, he sees it now, bright as day. Then, after he got out of the restaurant and was just about to get in the car, he was hit in the head. And then he woke up here… 

…in his own room? He closes his eyes, counts to three, then opens them again. No mistake. The smell of cigarettes in the air, Sobranie Black Russian, the variety he patrons; the curtains half-drawn, cuz he was distracted by something and didn’t do the other half, and now starlights are streaming in from the unobscured half of the window. He strains to get up, and spots the cushions strewn on the floor and in the midst of it, his video game player. Someone has abducted him into his guest room at Baishe…?

The light goes up. He squints his eyes. And then he sees — 

Oh he sees — 

Wild does not begin to describe it. Even his filthiest dreams have not been able to produce something quite… mind-numbing as this. Orgasmic bomb. Sexy apocalypse. He takes a few moments to register (and to breathe). 

Standing at the foot of the bed is Feilong, dressed in tight black leather pants, the first button undone, and an open, transparent, candy-wrap shirt, for that was what it was — flimsy, plastic, light-polarising material, the kind of which seems to be all the hype right now, and what it covers, or rather showcases, is no less than the headiest candy there is. Feilong’s tight naked skin glows in the moonlight like a dark promise. Behind him stretches an enfilade of mirrors, from Mikhail's prone position he can only glimpse Feilong’s leather-bound ass, but that much is enough to set his cock on fire. The proud owner of that ass stands perfectly still, posing with the danger and grace of a true White Snake. In his hands, he carries a slender black crop. His hair is done in a pony tail. 

Sometime while Mikhail was away, Feilong has turned his dorm room into a mirror-rich play room. The shackled Russian parts his lips, and breathes two words. “Do me.” 

Feilong takes two small steps toward his captive. His tone is not erotic even though his movement sure is. “Don’t be so hasty. You can decide after I explain.” 

Mikhail looks puzzled. “Explain what?”

Feilong drags the crop across his palm. “I’ve given it some thought, about what I can offer you that no one else can. Can you guess what I came up with?” He stops the crop and peeks at Mikhail from behind his sultry lashes. 

Mikhail draws a breath in. “No. No, actually I cannot. Some sort of stuffing experience?” He laughs drily. “Tell me.”

Feilong looks Mikhail straight in the eyes and says, “I can make Yuri disappear for you. For real. Forever.”

Even though Mikhail has some idea about where this is going now, he feels he has to make sure. Despite his best effort, his voice quavers a little. Just a little. “But he’s already gone.”

“Not for you.” Feilong takes another step in. He is close to the footboard now and Mikhail can see all the ripples of his muscles and the contour of his pants. “If you want, I can reproduce all the things he did to you, and give them a new meaning. Flogging can be quite pleasurable, I hear.”

Mikhail gives a nervous chuckle. “From your victims?”

“Yes, actually, if you want to call them that. They fall under my whip entirely of their own accord, I assure you. I must have some experience and expertise to offer something like this, mustn’t I?” Feilong’s tone is pure professional. 

“I don’t know what to think about this.”

“If you’re unsure then of course…”

“No, I didn’t mean you Yuri-ing me, I meant the fact that you have Yuri-ed _others_ … I don’t know what to think about _that_. I want to be the only one you’ve ever tortured.” Mikhail pouts.

Feilong pauses. One second. Two seconds. “So you’re saying…”

“Yes, baby, yeah, bring it on! Tie me, hit me, spank me, bruise me, do whatever you want, just do it NOW. I’m burning here.” He bucks his hips and Feilong can indeed see the proof of his flames. 

For a brief second, Feilong seems off-balance, like his game is slipping a little, but he quickly recovers. He leans in and places his hands on either side of Mikhail’s body, crop in hand. “Can’t you see, this is not about what I want. This is about you. This is a… a… a thank-you, if you will, for… for sharing with me things, for… for keeping your promise.”

“I’m sorry, what was that?” Mikhail genuinely didn’t hear it.

“You did say something about can’t enjoy BDSM sex, didn’t you? Well, I am saying you… you can.” Feilong straightens, trying his best to look and sound himself again. 

Mikhail gasps. “You heard! You remembered! You cared! Oh my God, baby, angel, love of my life, I’m gonna cry…”

“Stop it. Or I’m gonna spank you really hard…”

“Ooh… go on, tell me more, tell me what you’re gonna do…”

Feilong climbs into the bed and hovers above Mikhail, pressing down so close his abs are almost touching Mikhail’s erection. “How about you start first, and tell me what he did to you before…”

— 

“I was 13 years old when he did it to me for the first time. We were at our country house for the summer and I would walk or horse for miles on the plain. Down the road, across the river is another estate, no smaller than ours but set in a simpler landscape. I was drawn to its picturesque beauty, and before very long, I was drawn to its beautiful young master, Viktor, or as I called him later, Vitushka. 

“I was just waking up sexually at that age and had just made my first girlfriend at school, but Vitushka… he was something entirely different. We would play all day out in the nature, horsing, swimming, going for long treks in the forest, playing ball in the sun till our backs burnt. Sometimes we fought, and I always won. And one day, I kissed him… 

“The mistake I made, was I wasn’t brave enough to kiss him by the stream where I felt like it. Instead, I invited him back to my mansion under the false pretext of a hot cup of chocolate after the dip we’d had. All along the way I could sense he was thinking the same thing, but we were each fighting our inner demons and refused to be the first to break the magic. We reached the gate, it was opened for us, we ran in, holding hands. Our garden was big, with woods lining the driveway on both sides. We kept to the shades. About halfway to the front door, I panicked. The great mansion loomed ahead and I saw, I swear I saw, my father’s face appearing out of thin air, demanding in that harsh tone of his what I thought I was doing. The weight of being an Arbatov suddenly swooped down on me and I just… It later became a trait of mine. When I’m really panicking, or angry, or whatever, I just forget about everything else and do whatever the fuck I want. Fuck consequences. Tomorrow be damned. So I just grabbed him and kissed him right then and there, in the grove, next to the driveway…

“…where Yuri’s car happened to pass. He was not supposed to be back! It was not yet dinner hour and he usually didn’t come back until then! Well, not that I took much notice. I was always a self-centred kid and didn’t care much what other people were doing… In that moment, he saw me, and I saw him. I don’t know what got into me, I didn’t break the kiss, I just went on kissing Vitushka, deeper if anything, as Yuri drove by in his hoodless jeep. I knew he didn’t like it, and in my 13-year-old mind, that was so cool.

“What he did to me later was not cool at all.” 

—

“What did he do to you?” Feilong asks. He’s been standing at the foot of the bed all this time, trailing his crop lazily along Mikhail’s length. Mikhail told him several times if he kept doing that he’d come, but Feilong didn’t stop. 

Mikhail tries his damnedest to concentrate. 

“He… he made me go to his office, asked me if I knew what I was doing, I said I knew exactly what I was doing, that I loved Vitushka, and I would marry him when I grew up. So he made me take off my shirt, kneel in front of the table before an icon of Christ, and whipped me with his riding crop. I had to balance myself over the ledge and at one point, the impact shook everything off from that table. All through the session he demanded I repent, each time I refused, so he whipped me till I couldn’t say no any more. I fainted.”

“And after that?”

“After that he forbade me to go see Vitushka again, but I always managed. So he whipped me again, and again, and again, till the wounds would not heal any more. Once he tied me up from off the ceiling. Once he made me take off my pants, tied me to a chair and spanked me. Once he did it in a church. That one time, he cried afterwards.”

“Hmm.” Feilong’s face reveals no emotion. He traces the crop up Mikhail’s length then off of it, wringing a groan out of the blonde. “The ceiling is not geared for hanging, so for now I’ll tie you to the bed. I will put a spreader bar on you, I will warm you up with the paddle, then move on to the crop, or the flogger, if you like that better. Oh, and also, I’m putting a cage on your cock.” Mikhail groans again. “Are you okay with all this?” 

Mikhail takes a moment to think, then all he says is, “yes, I am.” The light exuding from his eyes speaks of pure admiration and trust. They let this moment sit between them, then Feilong unshackles Mikhail, first an ankle, then the other ankle, then the wrists. “Turn over and get on all fours for me.” He commands. 

—

The paddle left bright pink patches on Mikhail’s cheeks and thighs, his cock is straining dark red against the cage, his back is covered in a fine sheen of sweat, his toes are curled and he’s fighting against the bar (in vain of course), yet the moans he’s giving speaks nothing if not of pleasure.

Feilong throws away the paddle. He spanks Mikhail on the cheeks with his bare hand. Once. Twice. “I didn’t know you have such a submissive streak in you.” He’s standing behind Mikhail but the mirrors in front and behind them mean they can see all sides of each other at all times. Mikhail is bent over two pillows, his arms spread and tied to the twin posters on each side of the headboard, his ass up in the air, spread but not much, thanks to the medium-length bar. He looks up, and meets Feilong’s eyes in the mirror. Sweat is dripping off the tip of his blonde hair and his eyes carry a cloud of euphoric heat. He smiles a little. Feilong examines them both in the mirror and can’t help but feel the contrast: Mikhail, with his fair skin, golden hair, sculpted muscles and filthy smile, looks like a fallen angel, while he himself, with his dark hair, dark pants, darker moods, looks like a demon. The demon is holding the weapon, but it’s the angels who guard the Gate to Heaven. He takes off his shirt, and picks up the crop.

“Do you remember your safeword, Misha?” Feilong asks as he plays with the crop, warming himself up. 

“I do, Fei-sama.” Mikhail purrs. Damn, that man looks like a king even when he does the girliest of things!

“Good.” And he brings the crop down. 

Unlike the paddle, the crop delivers a sharp welt of pain that bites into the skin and ripples between and down the legs. Mikhail yelps, and his aura shifts a bit. Feilong catches it immediately. “That’s more like it, isn’t it?” He locks eyes with Mikhail in the mirror, not letting him go. “Yesss… That’s exactly like it.” “Look at me when I do it.” Feilong commands, and Mikhail obeys. 

One lash. Two lashes. And more. The Demon delivers one wallop after another across strategic areas without even looking down. He holds the Angel’s gaze like he’s holding up his soul. There is zero fear, zero doubt in his submissive's eyes, he does not worry if Feilong would hit him in the wrong places, he does not worry if he might push him too far too fast, he just wallows, mouth agape, in that sheer black dominance the man exudes. The mirrors open up an endless tunnel of their facsimiles and he can’t help but feel like little Alice, falling down down down down the glittery rabbit hole. 

He closes his eyes, and the whipping immediately stops.

“Is that good for you?” Feilong asks.

Mikhail sighs, and smiles a drugged-up smile. “Make me feel good now, Fei.”

It sounds more like an order than a plea. Normally, Feilong does not take kindly to being ordered around, but today he decides to let it slip, taking a mental note however for future reference. 

“Do you think you’ve earned it?” Feilong purrs, massaging the reddened flesh on Mikhail’s backside. 

Mikhail opens his eyes just a slit, and practically licks Feilong all over with his sizzling gaze. 

“Please, Fei-sama, all I can think about now is you. Make me remember it, once and for all.” 

A strange pride swells in Feilong’s heart. He hasn’t felt this kind of attachment to his submissive in a long time. They were either just eager pain sluts, practically begging to be punished, or a tool, a victim, a worm to crush. He’d never felt, not really, the responsibility that comes with being a Dom. He took them, but never had to give anything in return. And now, this powerful man, this man no less prideful than he, has rendered total control in his hands, has bared his history and his wounds, laid them at his feet like they are his trophy, asked to be cleansed, asked to be bruised, asked to be used. Feilong could never trust anyone enough to open up to them like that, and yet this man… this man seems to do it with no effort. How? Why? ...Could it be?

He asks himself if he has reached the mark, if he has performed what he promised he’d perform, and if truly, after this, the boy inside this man will suffer no more from nightmares. 

He searches Mikhail’s eyes and finds only desire. For him. For his pain, for his pleasure. That pride swells like a balloon in Feilong’s heart and he feels like he could burst into tears. How long since he last felt like this? That for once he’s done something good with his life?

He drops the crop, kneels behind Mikhail, and unshackles his cock. A loud gasp escapes the blonde, followed by a surprised growl. Mikhail opens his eyes wide at the damningly erotic sight before him: in the mirror he can see Feilong lying beneath him, mouth wrapped around his cock and hands reaching up to clasp his buttocks down. In his body, he feels a stabbing need to come, like nothing he’d ever felt in life. He bucks his hips into Feilong’s mouth but is promptly warned by a squeeze on his balls. He stills, and lets Feilong guide the pace. The beautiful man’s hair tumbles on the bed, his head bobs up and down, taking Mikhail in the most sinful ways known to man, and his hands, where Mikhail cannot see, fondle his balls like he’s stroking a cute puppy, like he’s telling him what a good boy he’s been. Mikhail is in a dilemma: on one hand, he wants to close his eyes, shut the world out, and drown in Feilong’s mouth, on the other hand, what’s playing before him is priceless porn, if eyes could come, he would have ejaculated a number of times. He’s not even controlling his sounds any more, Feilong needs to know how much he’s enjoying this — how fucking grateful he is that this is happening. 

Feilong’s hands stroke his butts and thighs where he’d left his marks, but he doesn’t touch his hole. He is not going an inch further than what they agreed on. And pretty soon his hot wet mouth is having Mikhail tensing and shivering, begging and shouting. All that need and love and pain and past pools beneath his belly and erupts into Feilong’s mouth. The beauty accepts it, milking every last drop out of the blonde. Mikhail stares into the mirror with dazed eyes, marvelling at the sight of Feilong swallowing his come, then throwing his head back and falling onto the bed, a few drops of sticky white pasted to his face and hair.

The whole thing has been so surreal that they both take a moment to come down from the clouds. Then Feilong shimmies out from beneath Mikhail and unchains him. Mikhail plops down onto the bed, a stupid smile on his face. Feilong goes to the mini-fridge and takes out an ice pad. Pacing back to bed, he orders, “turn over.” Mikhail complies but his demeanour is not that of a submissive any more. His fingers trace Feilong’s leather-clad thigh as the black-haired man sits next to him, nursing his backside. “Say, what are you wearing underneath these?” Feilong darts him a look. “Say, you’re recovering fast, aren’t you?” Mikhail answers by dipping his hand into Feilong’s crotch. He massages the beauty’s member till it's pushing against the leather, his thumb sliding into the pants and finding that indeed, Feilong is wearing nothing underneath. He edges in and undoes the rest of the buttons with his teeth and tongue, wetting the fabric and some skin. Feilong tries to control his breath but there’s no use, he’s panting hard and they both know it. Mikhail climbs up Feilong’s body and claims his mouth. The heat is building, their bodies are melting, just then, Mikhail parts their mouths and says, “Fei-chan, would you bring me some water?” “Go get your own water.” The beauty’s face may be blushing but his words can still cut ice. “Please, Fei-chan, would you? Take care of me like a good Dom.” Feilong knits his brows, sensing some trick in this, but not suspicious enough to say no. He pushes the bear away, and marches toward the fridge with some visible discomfort. 

Handing Mikhail the bottle, he watches as the blonde gulps it down, all the while locking eyes with him. Suddenly, the Russian throws away the bottle and pulls Feilong down into a firm embrace, kissing him on the mouth and pushing the liquid past those surprised lips. That’s when Feilong realises — this is not water at all! It’s vodka! Mikhail’s chuckle vibrates down his throat. “I’ve heard about how you can’t hold your alcohol. Wonder if it’s just urban legend.” The blonde devil smiles his evil smile and Feilong curses himself thinking, how could I compare this man to an angel?! 

The alcohol is starting to take effect and Feilong collapses into Mikhail’s arms. He’s clinging to the bigger man’s neck as the naked Russian lays him down on the bed. “That was diluted, not near half of its original strength, yet already you’re like this? I’m surprised.” He presses down, kisses Feilong some more, and twists a nipple, wringing out the sweetest moan he’s ever got from the man. “Not enough to knock you out, but enough to bring out your true self, I see. I must improve on this trick and do it more often.” His mouth moves down Feilong’s chest and abs, biting and nibbling along the way, enjoying the slender body’s shudders and jolts while his hands peel the leather off in a swift skilled manner. Feilong stills his head as he is about to dive down between those model legs. 

“You wanna know… what I’m wearing... underneath…?” In his half-drunken state, Feilong is drippy red like the Evil Queen’s apple and scorching hot like the Caribbean summer. His eyes are blurred and he bites his lower lip. “Move a little. I’ll show you.” He wiggles to turn over, sticking his ass up toward Mikhail, showing him the only underwear he’s been wearing to this point — a pink butt plug up that gorgeous hole. Mikhail’s cock jolts to attention. The decadent beauty turns around, throwing that banner of black hair over his shoulder, shoots Mikhail a wet gaze from behind those sinful lashes, and whispers, “do your worst.” 

Mikhail’s worst, as it turned out, includes more orgasms than the Dragon could count, a shattered mirror, a completely ruined bed — or carpet, for that matter. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If there's any glaring incorrectness in the BDSM practice described, please let me know. I'm always eager to learn more on the subject ;)


End file.
